


Get Out Alive

by WalkingDictionary (Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark)



Series: CSI: Miami From FFN [6]
Category: CSI: Miami
Genre: Gen, Season 9 Spoilers, Series Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-26
Updated: 2011-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-08 07:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8835826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scared_Beings_in_the_Dark/pseuds/WalkingDictionary
Summary: Realization sinks in, as does a new level of fear. He is a rat in a maze, playing a game he doesn't know the rules to, except of course that there is likely to be no cheese at the end of this cruel experience.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable items. Not the characters, not the songs, and definitely not the setting. There are spoilers—new and old—so beware if you aren't current on CSI: Miami. Otherwise, happy reading!
> 
> (Original disclaimer that appeared on post)

* * *

  **~ One ~**

The first thing Ryan Wolfe notices when he wakes up is that the light shining in his eyes flickers like a candle. He doesn't keep candles in his bedroom, too much of a fire hazard. Suddenly awake, eyes open wide, he takes in the circle of candles surrounding him. At first, he can't move, feeling his heart beat against his ribs, pain flashing and disappearing as the muscle is overworked. He has been arranged spread-eagled in the circle. It feels very sacrificial. His jacket, which he distinctly remembers putting on this morning, is missing. So is his watch. He doesn't remember anything past getting dressed for work. His white button-up shirt has been ripped open to expose most of his chest where several small cuts still bleed. What the hell happened to him?

The world will look better upright, he decides, movement returning to his limbs. He shifts, readying to stand, and something clinks against the floor as he moves his feet closer. A quick examination reveals a monitoring bracelet strapped to his left ankle. The light is green. His socks and shoes are intact, but his pant leg has been split to allow the bracelet to rest against his skin. He's certain it's to make sure he complies with orders—now he just needs the orders—as he scrambles to his feet and glances around the room he's in.

From the look of things, Ryan realizes he's in a warehouse. He's been kidnapped. Again. There is space all around him, but the circle of candles is almost in a corner. Behind him is the junction where the walls meet, and in front of him is a doorway, a gaping mouth that looks entirely uninviting. It is completely dark. Above the doorway hangs a sign painted in what Ryan thinks is red paint until he moves forward to the edge of the circle and his chest stings. That's why he's been cut. The sick bastard used his own blood to write it.

The words, "No time for goodbye," make no sense to Ryan, and yet they feel almost familiar. What does make sense, though, is avoiding the dark place. It appears, from here at least, that he can go around the structure into which the door has been constructed. It is time to break the circle. His first step out, a little to the side of directly towards the doorway, ignites a burning sensation in his ankle. The flash of pain is so sudden and severe that Ryan falls. He glares down his leg, noticing that it's the one with the bracelet, seeing that the previously green light is now an angry red pulse. He groans and forces himself to his feet to stumble back into the circle. Immediately the flow of electricity stops and he sighs in relief.

Now, it would appear that Ryan is to stay in the circle until the man who kidnapped him reveals what he has planned, but Ryan is never one to follow clichéd instructions. It takes a few moments, but he steps out of the circle again, and again he falls to the ground writhing in agony stemming from his ankle. An idea forms. What if he's supposed to go through the door? What if there is a safe path that allows him the pleasure of not being electrocuted every time he moves? Is that the order he's supposed to follow?

He pulls himself upright, grasping at empty air as if it will give him the leverage he needs. And then suddenly, mercifully, the pain stops as he half-stumbles into an invisible lane leading to the dark doorway. So, he was right. That doesn't mean the man isn't waiting where it's too dark to see to stab him or smash his head in. Still, it's a better chance than crawling around on the floor, especially with his injured chest, waiting for the current in his leg to increase to lethal proportions.

With a heavy mind, Ryan takes a few tentative steps towards the doorway, almost certain that it is a joke, that he'll be killed as soon as he enters the darkness. Deep breaths, he reminds himself as he steps into a room filled with nothing but musty air. He can't see two feet in front of his nose. One more careful step isn't cautious enough and he triggers a metal slab to cover the entrance behind him. The sound of it sliding down and locking into place makes his stomach flip and his heartbeat pick up. The dark becomes darker still and Ryan freezes. He has no way to defend himself if he is attacked. Putting his arms up in a defensive posture does nothing to calm his racing heart.

In the midst of the suffocating silence a tiny beep sounds. Ryan glances down at his ankle, surprised to see no lights on the bracelet. He hunches down, using clumsy fingers to pry at the device until it suddenly pops off in his hands. Almost instantly, light descends, bathing the entire room in a gentle glow. Realization sinks in, as does a new level of fear. He is a rat in a maze, playing a game he doesn't know the rules to, except of course that there is likely to be no cheese at the end of this cruel experience.

 

**~ Two ~**

In front of Ryan are three doorways, each as dark as the room had been before the light, each presenting an unfavorable choice. Over each doorway a picture painted in red hangs. This time, Ryan is sure it's paint. The far left one has a wild animal stalking its prey through a forest. The middle doorway has a sad-looking young woman standing with chained arms. The final one has an old man who appears to be melting into his background.

Ryan feels that the animal hallway is already in play, what with him feeling like stalked prey, and therefore not a healthy choice for him at all. The old man could be promising as some words, triggered by the phrase painted outside the original door, swim around his head, something about fading away. Ultimately, Ryan chooses the doorway with the young woman. If there is another victim in this game, Ryan wants to rescue her. He entertains no ideas of being a hero. He just wants to save everyone from this twisted game before someone gets hurt or dies.

The hallway is straight, if somewhat narrow—he can reach out both arms and brush his fingertips against the walls—and torches automatically light as he approaches them. He tries one and finds it fixed to the wall. No other potential weapons present themselves. Despite feeling certain he made the right choice in the hallways, Ryan can't help the apprehension that fills his body, rolls off his shoulders, and makes the already hard to breathe air even more contaminated. It also doesn't help that Ryan notices his feet stirring up a layer of dust as he moves. It makes him cough if he inhales too quickly, too deeply. One fit leaves him on his hands and knees wheezing as dust coats his mouth and throat.

Just when he doesn't think he can keep his reservations from dragging him back to the cul-de-sac of hallways, he comes to a dead end. Or, more precisely, a cage covering a dead end. The bars stretch from one side of the hallway to the other, disallowing him from moving closer to a figure standing by the back wall. The light doesn't quite reach, and Ryan isn't sure if the person is conscious or even still alive. He waits a few moments before grabbing at another torch. He yanks hard and falls back as the torch readily comes free. The light it throws on the cage illuminates the figure. It's a skeleton dressed in a faded pink nightgown covered in frills and lace. If this was a human, and Ryan seriously doubts it because he can see no evidence of flesh on the too-white bones, it's way too late to help her.

 

**~ Three ~**

Ryan has no choice but to turn around to return to the choice of three hallways. The only thing that cheers him up, besides the acquisition of his light source, is that he had already narrowed it to two choices. So, the old man fading into the background will be the next trek. He is so tired. He wants nothing more than to wake up from this albeit rather un-scary nightmare and be safe in his bed.

The skeleton in the cage, chains encircling her wrists reminds him of his small foray into torture, the experience from two years ago and the one just a week ago. The feel of a knife twisting in his shoulder, the sharp crack of his tooth breaking from his jaw, the choking sensation of water overpowering his desire to hold his breath, the memories he wishes would stay buried. Ryan stops, remembering the Russian, merging him with the guard. What if Horatio and Eric hadn't shown up to rescue him from drowning? What if…Ryan shakes his head, refuses to play that game.

No one rescued him from the Russian, but he hadn't meant to kill him, just scare him, hurt him, threaten him. No one will come to his rescue, Ryan decides, taking a deep breath and trying not to cough as the stale, dust-laden air invades his lungs too deeply. The torch sputters out as Ryan reaches the point where the three hallways are. He holds the burned-out stub in front of his face, turning to the left and marching down the old man's hallway.

A spot, hidden behind a bend, glows, catching Ryan's attention. He approaches it as if it's a bomb ready to explode the minute he crosses a trip wire. Instead of finally confronting his abductor, Ryan finds an MP3 player tucked inside a colorful pocket hanging on the wall. There is a note attached to it.

_Congratulations, mouse,_ he reads,  _you have made it this far. There is still something I need you to do. When the time comes, you'll know what it is. Happy hunting, mouse._

He puzzles over the words, noticing that the MP3 player is similar to the one Natalia had at the lab a couple of years ago after an explosion damaged her hearing. The song that blares when he turns it on is not the one she was playing that he claimed to like. The name and band escape him as he listens to the opening bars.

_This world will never be what I expected_

_And if I don't belong, who would have guessed it?_

_I will not leave alone everything that I own_

_To make you feel like it's not too late, it's never too late_

That's it: the song is "Never Too Late" by _Three Days Grace_. No wonder he didn't recognize it. A neighbor of his uncle's grandson played it for him a couple of times when they were waiting for Bingo Night to end three years ago. He's heard it only a couple of times since then and he is almost entirely unfamiliar with the lyrics, but the meaning behind them interests him.

_Even if I say it'll be all right_

_Still I hear you say you want to end your life_

_Now and again we try to just stay alive_

_Maybe we'll turn it around_

' _Cause it's not too late, it's never too late_

He remembers another song the angst-filled teenager had shared with him. It was also by _Three Days Grace_ , if memory serves him. “Get Out Alive.” The song starts "No time for goodbye, he said as he faded away." Ryan hits his forehead. The old man fading into the background, the words at the entrance.

"If you want to get out alive, whoa, run for your life," he mutters darkly, staring at the MP3 player still declaring that "it's not too late, it's never too late."

"It is for me," he likes the strength he hears in his voice, even if the statement is rather defeatist. He takes another deep breath, remembering to cover his mouth and nose before sucking in more dust. He still coughs, but it's not as bad. The hallway, as narrow as the other one, stretches on and on with bends and turns so sharp that Ryan can't let his guard down. How on earth was the other hallway so straight while this one has more turns than a merry-go-round? He can't shake the feeling that every step he takes could potentially be his last.

He attempts to turns off the MP3 player so that his approach will be more silent, but the device shocks him. It's nowhere nearly as painful as the ankle bracelet, but his fingers still sting after the jolt. There's nothing to indicate that it is rigged to do that on its own, so Ryan assumes the sound is supposed to disguise all other noises, and the person behind this elaborate scheme designates how loud it is. Resigning himself to the fact that he can't control anything but the movement of his feet, Ryan tucks the device into his pocket, fixing the headphones around it, hoping to muffle as much of the sound as possible.

The song ends as he hefts the stick and marches towards another blind corner. Almost immediately it starts again, distinctive guitar riff, generically distinctive voice. He ignores it, focuses instead on the pounding of his heart, the sweat running down his body despite the cool temperature of the warehouse.

_No one will ever see this side reflected_

_And if there's something wrong, who would have guessed it?_

The words stop him, images of the Russian and his tools flowing over him like breaking water.

_No, no! Stop!_

_So you will do what I ask?_

_Never._

_I warned you of what would occur should you refuse me._

_No! No!_

The pliers were cold, taking his tooth and leaving an aching, empty hole. He gasps, spitting and expecting to see blood mixed with saliva. In the dim light, he thinks he does. Ryan flinches as a remembered punch hits him in the stomach, air whooshing from between his lips as if he's really been hit. He drops the torch handle, clutching his head in both hands. What's wrong with him? This is ancient history! Two years ago. Over and done. The torturer is dead. Horatio shot him.

And, yet, Ryan feels another fist bounce off his face, stinging his jaw, bruising his cheek. He can't tell what's real and what isn't as he's driven to his knees by the invisible fists. Through it all, the imagined torture, the real torture, Ryan hears the song, every sentence punctuated with a sharp whimper from him as pain prickles his body where the fists are—were.

_Even if I say it'll be all right_

_Still I hear you say you want to end your life_

_Now and again we try to just stay alive_

_Maybe we'll turn it around_

' _Cause it's not too late, it's never too late_

When a hand grabs his hair, Ryan gropes on the floor for the piece of wood he dropped, swinging it up and connecting with—

 

**~ Four ~**

Air. Nothing but dust-filled, musty-smelling air.

The last few minutes have been nothing but a waste of time spent remembering and feeling something that should never have happened.

Ryan gets to his feet, irritation at himself replacing the fear he felt earlier. No wonder no one likes him, he thinks. He's always so quick to judge without any evidence. He'd felt hurt when, after he had revealed the evidence he had held onto to his colleagues, they had dismissed him as petty and selfish. When has saving the life of a young boy ever been petty or selfish? He dusts off his knees and continues on his way, doing his best to ignore the song still playing.

He resolves to not lose his marbles as he travels the maze, waiting for a knife to be slipped between his ribs or a nice smack from an aluminum baseball bat to crack open his skull. But, he concedes that it's already a little too late to keep all of his sanity. Einstein once said, "A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or the others crazy?" If he has to guess, Ryan thinks he's the crazy one. After all, he's the one who usually has a different opinion than the others, and different is crazy, right?

For some reason that thought reminds him of the odd janitor on Night Shift who can quote Einstein like no other. Once, when Ryan was late to leave after a case—after the Robbery-Homicide that was supposed to disappear—the janitor had stopped him and said, "A table, a chair, a bowl of fruit and a violin; what else does a man need to be happy?" before showing him tattoos of all the things. Ryan didn't think the man was particularly happy, but he had taken the advice to heart and had avoided his colleagues until Eric approached him about his cold behavior.

"Before God we are all equally wise," the man had said the last time Ryan was in the Crime Lab—what he was doing there, hiding outside Horatio's rarely used office, Ryan didn't want to know. He hadn't paid him any attention, racing to get away after another thing in his life had gone wrong, but the words "and equally foolish" followed him anyway. He'd put it out of mind until now and doesn't even know why he remembers it at all. His random thoughts calm him enough to stop jumping at every corner, every imagined shadow, and he settles for just staying upright, energy leaking from him like he's a faucet with a bad drip. Like a foolish man wandering wise hallways.

It takes a long time, the battery on the MP3 player has died and the entire electronic has been discarded, by the time he reaches what must be the end, if the swords crossed over the closed door mean anything. He opens it and enters a room filled with darkness. There is little light flowing over him from the hallway behind. It's as if the chamber in front of him sucks the light away. He takes a few uncertain steps, torch handle raised again. So help the person who runs into him, he thinks. A few more steps bring him to a bend. He thinks there is a shadow hiding around it, he can hear the ragged breathing of someone anticipating smashing in his head. Silently, he counts to three and jumps around the corner, battle cry dying in his throat as he faces more nothingness. This whole setup is almost disappointing, but Ryan isn't stupid enough to wish that he should have more excitement. As it is, he doesn't think his heart can take another near scare.

Ahead of him, he sees flickering light. He does not want the sad fact to be that he just walked in a circle and is now back where he started. Although, that would be in keeping with playing a game of a madman. Taking a deep breath—and almost choking on the still-thick air—Ryan bursts from the darkness, as if breaking free from a long submergence in a non-tangible liquid. He stops short, anger twisting his face into an ugly snarl.

In front of him is another circle with candles. It is exactly like the one he left not an hour ago. Except, in the center of this circle is a silver briefcase. The contents stir a morbid curiosity in Ryan that he is unable to easily brush aside—What is in the damn case? White arrows painted on the floor indicate that he should move into the circle. Despite the experience with the electrifying ankle bracelet, Ryan disobeys the instructions and begins moving to the side of the circle, attempting to find another way out.

He stops mid-stride when gunfire sounds and a hail of bullets rains down around him. Ryan freezes as they continue hammering the ground in front of him. The handle, dropped near his feet, explodes as bullets tear into it, showering his feet with chips. He backs up slowly, hissing in pain as one of the bullets—he'd call it stray, but he's sure it's hit its intended target—grazes his cheek, warm blood running down to stain his collar.

_The next one will hit something major._

Ryan isn't sure if he imagined the words or not, but there is no mistaking the threat. He steps into the circle and drops to his knees next to the case. Almost immediately the bullets cease, leaving behind an awful silence that seems to suck the air out of his lungs. He takes a small breath, hoping to stave off another coughing fit from breathing in dust kicked up from the volley. He barely succeeds, clearing his throat many times before the tickle disappears. Under the case, discovered only because his OCD pings until he straightens it from its current angled position, are instructions to open the case and inject whatever is inside into a vein.

Mouse, he thinks, this is the thing you have to do.

He shifts, sitting back on his haunches, examining the case carefully because he thinks it might be booby-trapped. Nothing jumps out at him. No wires, no other obvious triggers. The clicks of the briefcase's locks sound incredibly loud to Ryan, especially in the aftermath of the bullets. Nestled in a bed of gray material are a syringe and a vial. Blood drips onto the clear liquid contained in a small, clear bottle. He touches his cheek, wincing as it stings. The graze reminds him that his chest was sliced open to paint the first sign. Ryan checks himself, cursing the unsanitary conditions of this place. Other than several shallow cuts and scratches, the skin seems unbroken, just smeared with dried blood and dust. He decides there is no way he is spending any more time unconscious with a man who has no qualms about hurting him.

The syringe, loaded with whatever sedative meant for him, will make an effective weapon if the bastard who abducted him gets close enough to stab. Gently, Ryan lifts the syringe, unsure if the case is rigged with a pressure plate. When no electricity, or other similarly unpleasant surprise, occurs he picks up the vial. The syringe is warm to the touch, the vial cold. It isn't easy to pull liquid into the syringe because his fingers are shaking. The air around him is cool, but not entirely uncomfortable. He isn't cold. He is scared that the man with the gun will shoot him before he can try to escape.

Ryan shifts, rising from a crouched position, syringe aimed at the sky, squirting briefly to clear air bubbles. In the other hand he holds the open briefcase. He counts to ten, placing the needle against his throat. As soon as he reaches "ten," he throws the briefcase in the direction of where the gunfire had come from and jumps to the other side, exiting the circle. The briefcase clinks as several bullets bite into the metal. Ryan runs without looking back. He is frightened, adrenaline pumps through his veins, keeps him hyperaware of the bullets kicking dirt into the air around him.

He tries to turn a corner, to squeeze between the wall of the maze and the warehouse's wall. He doesn't quite turn enough and becomes pinned between the two metal slabs. The needle stabs into his leg, but his luck isn't too bad as he's able to remove his finger from the plunger before any of the sedative is forced into him. From the depths of the crevice, a hand extends, a 9 millimeter Glock pressing into his forehead. His own gun.

"The syringe," the owner of the hand demands, finger settling on the trigger. Gun trumps needle every time. Ryan fumbles to release his hand so that he can relinquish control of the potential weapon. He finally is able to pull free so that he can move away from the darkened area, jerking the needle out. The syringe is picked out of his hand as the man steps from the crevice. Thin and tall. Blonde curls and red lips. Not what Ryan normally would expect from a kidnapper. The man must have hired muscle hiding somewhere. He does not have much time to reflect on what exactly the man plans on doing to him before the needles plunges into his neck and the cold liquid is released into his blood.

He steps back, sways, and then falls forward into the man's arms. The images before his eyes swim, blurring in and out of focus as he slowly loses consciousness. The last thing he sees is another needle flashing in front of his eyes before an abyss of nothingness swallows him and he slumps to the floor, the man singing a raspy lullaby that holds no comfort for his victim.

 

**~ Five ~**

Ryan wakes to the fuzzy sight of his hands tied around a support beam. He closes his eyes, willing himself not to look down as he dozes off again, the remainder of the sedative buzzing in his veins. It takes an hour, by his estimation, for all the side effects of the sedative to completely wear off. His vision remains blurry for a few moments longer than he would like, but when he is fully aware, he wants the oblivion that unconsciousness granted him back. His shoulders and arms are burning from holding his weight for so long. His feet are dangling in open air. The floor is a good twenty feet below him. His acrophobia kicks in moments later and he begins struggling and yelling for help. He isn't surprised to find that he's been gagged.

This situation is worse than when Calleigh made him process a crane for evidence a few years ago because, even though he was scared then, he knew, rationally, that the crane wouldn't spit him out and make him fall. Now, he has only the strength of the knots and his muscles. It's not looking so good for him right now.

Where he is hanging is completely dark, but the warehouse below is lit much the same as the maze was, low lights that glow burnt amber. It is too dim to see the floor itself, but from his vantage point he sees the things above the floor, like a table next to his hanging body and stacks of cardboard boxes hiding the back of the warehouse. Ryan can only assume that some special precautions have been taken to make sure he stays hidden if and when his colleagues get their hands on his location. He has the thin kidnapper to thank. Something sits funny in his chest, and it's not the height.

How could one person—even with help from a few meatheads—construct the maze through which he had spent a few hours wandering? What was the motive for putting him through that experience only to move him to another warehouse—or possibly the same one—and leave him hanging on the ceiling where anyone with a ladder and a sense of humanity can rescue him?

Nothing makes sense, and it makes his head hurt to think about it. Instead, Ryan decides he needs to distance himself from the height, and what better way to distract a CSI than to have him look for clues that can solve the crime? It hadn't worked very well in the crane, so he doesn't have hope that it will work now, but he looks anyway. Off to the side of his left foot is a long table loaded with pipes and wires and other materials that look suspiciously like bomb-making items. Where in this place would the man hide a bomb? As he twists his wrists, rotating them slowly and then quickly, something heavy bangs against his fingers. He curses—muffled. Even though his fingers are numb, he imagines that he feels pain radiating from them.

Ryan glances up at his hands, staring in disbelief at the box perched nearly on top of his bound hands. So, if the bomb is triggered, he's going to die. Surprise, surprise. But that bomb is a little big just to blow one insignificant CSI off the face of the earth. Maybe the point is to annihilate his body so that there is nothing left to identify. Ryan does not want that to happen. He redoubles his efforts at escaping, a tiny voice warning him that he could be the trigger.

He swings his body, attempting to climb onto the beam from which he dangles like a piece of meat in a slaughterhouse, clutching it as tight as his blood-deprived fingers can grip. It's not enough, he's not strong enough, and he slips down off the beam, screaming into the gag as his arms jerk from the movement. Tears sting his eyes, blinding him as he tries to pull himself back onto the beam to relieve the pain coursing through his muscles. Nothing helps, so he yanks on the rope. He might be able to survive a twenty foot fall with minimal damage if he lands just right.

The rope bites into his wrists, squeezing blood out where he's already been rubbed raw. It soaks the rope, but not quick enough for Ryan's liking. He begins struggling again, fighting to loosen the rope, fighting to make his wrists bleed faster. The bomb, a large black box painted with white words, lyrics from “Get Out Alive,” rocks with him. He has to stop moving or it will fall and detonate.

He looks down, trying to see if there is something nearby that will help him, realizing his mistake only when the vertigo causes him to gag on the pure fear of hanging in midair, nothing to support him, no one to save him. He would laugh if he could; choking on vomit is an even less desirable death than falling. Breathing deeply through his nose, he calms himself enough to search the beam in front of him to see if he can push the bomb onto more steady footing, as it were, and try to free himself again. He has barely gotten the nerve to try touching the bomb when he hears wails approaching the building. The wails are sirens. Help has arrived!

The amber light fades away as if the warehouse knows something bad is going to happen. Ryan's strength, never fully recovered and constantly used up by his escape attempts, fails again, and he cries as his body sags, painfully pulling on his arms and shoulders. He hangs his head, eyes closed, trying to will away the tears that spring to his eyes every time his aching muscles are strained. Then he lifts his head, because just as the doors are blown open, an idea strikes him. He is the bait used by the thin man to maim and kill the Miami Dade Police Department. He can't warn them, the gag won't budge, no matter how hard he tries to spit it out. It feels as if it's been shoved to the back of his mouth, pinning down his tongue. He gags on it, barely choking back a wave of nausea.

The light let in with SWAT members in full riot gear rushes over the floor, settling into every crack and crevice it can reach, illuminating the chilling scene of numerous blood pools soaked into the floor. Blood from what, Ryan wonders, or who? After SWAT has cleared the warehouse, empty except for the boxes piled at the back of the room, the CSIs file in after their trusted leader, Lieutenant Horatio Caine. Horatio is the only one not wearing a bullet-proof vest.

No one looks up. The light doesn't reach him, even though it should. Again, Ryan thinks the man must have made some special modifications to keep him hidden. Calleigh Duquesne, Natalia Boa Vista, and Walter Simmons all begin searching the walls and boxes for evidence of the thin man or maybe Ryan. He doesn't know how long he's been in captivity or even if they miss him yet. Eric Delko approaches the table, snapping on gloves and examining several leftovers from the bomb balanced over his head.

A piece of pipe catches the CSI's attention, and he picks it up get a closer look. He steps back from the table as he turns it over in his hands, slow measured movements. He stops directly beneath Ryan. If Ryan were to fall, surely Eric would provide a safe enough landing, right? His colleague holds the pipe carefully, as if it is filled with C4 explosives and will blow up if he breathes on it wrong. Suddenly, much to Ryan's amusement, a drop of blood slips from his elbow where it has collected from his wrist and drops onto the pipe. Eric looks up, shock widening his eyes.

"Horatio!" Eric motions the lieutenant to the table, showing him the blood on the pipe. He then points up. "Wolfe." Ryan twists a little bit more, hoping they can see the bomb balanced on the beam next to his head. They don't appear to notice it. Instead, they begin discussing how best to get him down. Ryan screams, but the gag takes so much of the sound that he isn't sure he can be heard so far down. Eric notices his frantic movements and tells him to calm down. Then he looks down at the pipe he is still holding. He glances at the wires on the table and turns to Horatio, mouth opening. Horatio beats him to the punch, yelling at everyone to get out. After a few seconds of confusion, there is a sudden stampede to the door. The last ones out are Eric and Horatio. Only Eric looks back.

 

**~ Six ~**

Ryan waits for someone to come back for him for several minutes, struggling periodically as his strength ebbs and flows like a twisted tide. Even though he knows it was in their best interests, watching all the others file out hurts worse than the time they thought he'd committed a murder. It feels like they are giving up on him. Why does it always seem like his second chances run out the times he does absolutely nothing wrong in the first place? What has he done that makes them disregard him so? He closes his eyes, trying to fight the tears that burn his eyes yet again.

Below him, he hears someone marching across the floor. Elation soars through his chest and he begins struggling again, satisfied as the blood on his wrists flows faster.

"Mr. Wolfe?" Horatio stops beneath him, not seeming to mind the drips of blood splashing down on him.

"Hmph," Ryan grunts, choking on the gag as he stares down at his boss. What he meant to say was, "Get me the hell down!" But he has to settle for just having Horatio come back for him.

"We're gonna get you down, it'll take a few minutes though," Horatio fiddles with his sunglasses and locks eyes with Ryan. A roar settles over the warehouse startling Ryan. He looks up, wincing as the bomb vibrates a little closer to the edge of the beam. The roar persists for a few long minutes and then fades away as if nothing has happened. Ryan looks down at Horatio who has replaced his sunglasses and appears to ignore his CSI.

The roof suddenly comes under attack, screeching as a portion is peeled back to allow two men in puffy suits to drop onto the beam. They carry a tank of liquid nitrogen and an emergency blanket.

The blanket is draped over his head and hands while the liquid nitrogen is applied in small bursts to the bomb. After several seconds, the blanket is lifted off, and one of the men kneels down.

"Mr. Wolfe, we're going to get you free now. Nod if you understand." Ryan nods, watching as the man pulls out a knife that looks more saw than knife and begins hacking at the ropes covering his bloody wrists. The other man wraps a harness around the bomb and lifts it out the hole in the roof.

As he watches the ropes falling away from his arms, and as he tries to cling to the beam above him with what little strength he has mustered, Ryan notices something. There is still a length of rope attached to his arm. It hangs lower than the others, so it will be cut last. Instead of being attached to the beam like the others, this rope wanders away from him. He follows it as best he can. It extends through several loops across the warehouse ceiling. He notices the tension on the rope as the man works to free him. He tries to tell him to stop, but no one has removed the gag. As soon as the final knot is cut, the rope yanks him away, pulling him across fifty feet of open air, before he crashes into one of the towers of boxes.

What looked like cardboard is actually metal siding, and Ryan acquires quite a few new bruises as he bounces down the pile. He lands remarkably gently on his knees, crying out as they are jarred. He can't use his hands to push himself off the floor, and so he lays there for a few minutes before forcing himself up and to his feet. His arm, the one the rope that pulled him across the warehouse was attached to, feels broken. So do several of his ribs. Blood runs from a cut on his forehead and spills off his wrists.

He sways drunkenly, exhilarated at being on the ground, smiling around the gag, before falling forward and passing out for a few seconds. When he comes to, he finds he is able to leverage himself to his feet again. Not nearly as dizzy as before, he begins stumbling his way towards Horatio, who has remained at the table although his sunglasses are now off.

It feels so good to be back on solid ground despite the fact that he can't walk straight right now. Ryan takes a few more experimental steps, surprised when his legs, shaking so hard they hurt, don't give out under his weight. He's cold and his entire body aches, but he's alive. The bomb techs exit the same way they came in: a helicopter on the roof. The roar has been explained, Ryan thinks as he tries to ignore the pain radiating from everywhere on his body.

Horatio stands by the table, sunglasses dangling from his fingers. An uncharacteristic frown still haunts his face, as if the events displease him in some form. Ryan swallows hard. Somehow, he knows his kidnapping, and subsequent torture, is his fault. Something he did caught the attention of the madman who used him to try to eradicate the Miami Dade Police Department. Now he needs to figure out what it is before Horatio fires him for incompetence.

The gag is still in his mouth. He's found it useful to disguise the small moans of pain he can't fight back. Horatio doesn't show weakness, and Ryan isn't going to either. The small steps he's taking aren't getting him any closer to his boss, and Horatio still hasn't moved since Ryan was freed from the support beam. Agonizing minutes crawl by, and yet Ryan doesn't feel any closer to Horatio than when he started moving. And then he trips, foot catching on a raised part of the floor. He braces for a painful impact that he can't stop, eyes squeezed shut.

His eyes fly open as he is surprised by Horatio's hand wrapping around his mostly uninjured arm to stop him from falling. Ryan's stomach lurches as vertigo kicks in. His vision swims; sometimes the floor looks really close and other times he sees Horatio. A fuzzy outline keeps the images moving at a vomit-inducing pace. Everything is bathed in a fishbowl-look with curved edges and blurry focus. He chokes on the gag as it prevents the bile trapped in his mouth and throat from escaping. Horatio pulls it out, standing patiently as Ryan's stomach's meager contents splash over his dusty pants. The sunglasses are nowhere to be found.

Tears sting Ryan's eyes but he is determined not to let Horatio see them, unaware that his boss is just two steps away from being completely omniscient. Together, they continue through the warehouse. Ryan notices they pass the table.

So Horatio moved to catch me, he thinks, wondering what it means and if he misinterpreted Horatio's earlier glare.

They burst into the sunlight, at least, that's how Ryan thinks of it. The darkness was a cloak and, with Horatio's help, he has thrown it off. The sun is warm on his skin, but the light hurts his eyes. And there is a deafening roar rushing through his ears. Did the helicopter come back? He stares up at the sky, squinting through tears and pain to catch sight of it. His time in the warehouse had been so silent, even when he was being rescued, even when he was throwing up on his boss, that it takes Horatio moving to shield his body from a barrage of hands and voices for Ryan to realize the noise isn't from the helicopter but rather from the people waiting to see if he would come out alive.

Well, he will live to mess up another day, but something feels wrong. It feels like he's been gone from his friends and colleagues much longer than a few hours or even just a day. His stomach lurches again and he coughs acid onto an unfortunate person standing next to him.

"Is he okay?" the person asks, and Ryan is surprised again when Eric lifts his chin so he can see his face. Eric's touch is gentle. He uses the pad of his thumb to wipe away a tear Ryan is not aware of releasing. He wants to lie, to say that he can walk on his own and that he'll be in to work tomorrow after a good night's rest. He draws in the first full breath that doesn't trigger a coughing fit—although his ribs protest against the expansion of his lungs—and opens his mouth to speak.

"I'm not okay," he whispers, and Eric nods. Horatio and Eric suddenly lift him into the back of an ambulance. Two paramedics secure him to a gurney locked to the floor. Horatio climbs in and sits next to his head. Silence settles around them, punctuated by the paramedics talking and moving, taking Ryan's vitals and bandaging the most obvious wounds. He wonders if he should ask them to put a bandage on his soul so it'll start healing, but he's afraid they will laugh at him. The driver starts the engine. They are going to a hospital where Ryan will be invasively examined. He is not looking forward to it. He should have lied, even though he knows it would have been futile.

As they pull away from the scene, Ryan lowers his head, too tired to stay upright, and watches the heads of the paramedics as they settle around him, one of them tucking a blanket over his still-cold form. "Horatio?" Ryan wants to know something. Something he hasn't allowed himself to spend much time thinking about—not in the maze as the mouse, not hanging from the beam as bait. "How long was I missing?" Horatio does not respond, and Ryan turns to look at him.

"Two days," Horatio finally speaks, sunglasses flying to his face to hide the shame Ryan sees in his eyes. So he does have a weakness. And a pocket inside his jacket. "We didn't realize it until late yesterday."

"Oh," Ryan says. What else can he say? He turns away from Horatio, staring at a point on the opposite wall, willing the traitorous tears to go away again. "I suppose it's never too late to rescue me," he whispers so quietly he almost can't hear himself. And his heart breaks a little bit more than it did in the warehouse when everyone ran from him.

A few seconds pass before he thinks of something else he should know. He turns back to Horatio, "Why was I taken?"

"There was a man who was less than pleased with your involvement in shutting Paul Nichols down. He targeted you to draw out the rest of the Crime Lab."

Ryan shakes his head. He was right about being used as bait, but it still doesn't make sense. Yes, he was the undercover agent, but Eric killed the guard. Shouldn't  _Eric_  have been the one running around in the maze? Immediately, he regrets that thought. No one—not even he—deserved to go through that experience.

"How did you find me?"

"The man, Robert Sandels, was involved in a minor car accident in front of the Crime Lab. He rear-ended Frank because he was under the influence of heroin. We found your phone and some blood in his car. His movements of the past week, relayed by GPS from a unit in his car, led us to the warehouse."

"So, you  _were_  looking for me?"

Horatio removes his sunglasses to stare at him. He doesn't respond, as if the need for verification that he was the cause for the raid on the warehouse is a ridiculous question to ask and is beneath comment. Or so Ryan thinks.

There is one last thing Ryan needs to know. "Why didn't you notice that I'd been missing for so long?" He can understand not being missed at first—hell, no one noticed he'd been taken by the Russians—but 48 hours is a little too long.

Horatio sighs as if disgusted with Ryan's persistence. It's the one weakness that Ryan can't even pretend to hide. He needs to know why he was left in a place where he very easily could have been killed. He needs to know why he wasn't important enough to rescue at first.

"You didn't exactly leave on good terms the night before you went missing," Horatio's voice isn't accusing, but his words still place the blame squarely on Ryan's shoulders. Yes, it's true he stormed off two nights ago, approximately one week after the sting at Nichols's high priced hooker fest, but he only did so because he was mad at Horatio.

The argument, brought about by Eric's revelation that Horatio's hadn't attempted to pull him out from under the guard, and Horatio's revelation that his motives behind drowning the man before securing his CSI were too important for Ryan to understand, had escalated until Ryan was scared that Horatio would take his gun and either pistol whip him or escort him off the premises (even though he had no reason to believe that Horatio would actually use violence against one of his own), hence why he had marched away, head held high (like Horatio would have done had the roles been reversed) before Horatio could do either—he probably wouldn't have, but it was a little too late to consider that now. Apparently, though, the nature (heat) of the argument meant that he could disappear for a good long while before anyone missed him (went looking for him).

He remembers the song from the MP3 player, hearing some of the lyrics in his mind.

_Maybe we'll turn it around_

' _Cause it's not too late, it's never too late_

_It's never too late_

_It's not too late, it's never too late_

But it is too late. Ryan has come to a decision that he will still examine very carefully as he is confined to the hospital—and hopes he can talk himself out of, really, he does. He will leave the Crime Lab and seek his fortune somewhere else once he has fully recovered from his ordeal, because, if his colleagues couldn't be bothered to look for him until they realized the trap set for them—despite any disagreements, including those regarding his safety—then they do not deserve his trust and friendship. Especially Horatio.

_If I stay it won't be long 'til I'm burning on the inside_

_If I go I can only hope that I'll make it to the other side_

_If you want to get out alive_

_Whoa, run for your life_

And that is exactly what Ryan plans to do. He will run for his life.

 

**~The End~**

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thank you to everyone who took the time to read, review, story alert, and author alert for this story.  
> I apologize for the out-of-character-ness the people in the story exhibited.  
> This story is not meant to be a putdown of the other characters—it is told specifically from Ryan's point of view to make a statement that despite how the characters act, it's all in the perception of people.  
> Ryan feels slighted because he thinks the others don't care about him. In reality, his actions lead to the actions the others take against him.  
> ~WalkingDictionary  
> P.S.: If you noticed any plot holes (such as, Why did Robert Sandels take heroin and crash into Tripp?), please let me know, and if it is vital to the story (Sandels uses heroin simply because he can-he's a millionaire! And he crashed into Tripp because that's what a person under suspicion did in an episode (season 5, I think), I'll edit the story, otherwise I'll PM you.  
> Thanks again!  
> ~WalkingDictionary
> 
> (Original author’s note that appeared on post)
> 
> This was briefly edited to fix some grammatical errors. Nothing was changed in the way of the story.
> 
> Link to original post: [Get Out Alive](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/6689486/1/Get-Out-Alive)
> 
> Three Days Grace Songs used:  
> Title: Get Out Alive  
> MP3 player song: Never Too Late


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